


Hacy One Shots and Then Some

by nicmacallan



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internal Conflict, Mutual Pining, OTP Feels, Romance, Sexual Humor, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicmacallan/pseuds/nicmacallan
Summary: Series of Hacy One Shots. Occasionally, scenes will continue. All Hacy, All the Time. In this house, we stan Hacy, or we GTFO. Cheers.A/N: Feel free to leave suggestions/requests in the comments, and I'll try to get to them if I can. FYI though, I'm trying to keep this one rated T (M at most.)
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 34
Kudos: 121





	1. Death of a Bachelor: Part One

Harry thought that the last party he’d attended as Macy’s date would be the last she’d ever invite him to attend. After all, she’d seemed to be so perturbed by how little his presence had helped to make Galvin jealous. Indeed, all he’d managed to do that night—aside from improving the party with some particularly delicious Welsh Rarebit, if he said so himself—was create further awkwardness between Galvin and his new girlfriend. 

Honestly, he hadn’t expected Macy to chime in quite so quickly when Summer had commented on how lucky she was to be “with” him. Harry told himself he shouldn’t have been hurt by how loudly or emphatically Macy had exclaimed “We’re just friends!” He shouldn’t have been. But he was. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. And honestly, it seemed unlikely that there would ever be a reason to bring it up again.

Now, however, Harry found himself once again in the position of seat-filler, as it were. Filling in for the Absence of Galvin, with Macy, to another festive holiday event. This time, a New Years Eve party that was being thrown by the wealthy benefactors who were sponsoring one of Macy’s most important research projects. When Maggie—and it was always Maggie, God Help Them—had suggested that Macy bring Harry as her date, Harry and Macy had both looked askance, each hemming and hawing for a likely excuse. Unfortunately, Mel wasn’t having it.

“Oh, cut it out, you two!” she’d ordered. “It’s not like you’re brother and sister. Chill the heck out with your cringeingly heteronormative sensibilities, and go to the damn party as good friends. Which you ARE, by the way, in case you forgot.”

Sheepishly, Harry and Macy had looked at each other, and simultaneously acquiesced. After all, it seemed that Mel was right, and they were making too much of what was ultimately a casual, work-related event. It wasn’t until a few days later, when Macy announced (dejectedly) that the party had been upgraded to black tie, that Harry began to get truly excited. Not because he would be attending such a party with Macy, of course. But because he so rarely had the opportunity to wear the tuxedo he’d had custom made on Savile Row in the 1960s. Or had it been the late 1950s? Regardless, Maggie assured him that vintage was in, and he was well aware that the best bespoke suits were made to last for generations. 

After orbing out of his apartment and into the foyer of the Vera-Vaughn home, Harry announced himself with a subtle clearing of his throat. When there was no response, he tried again, a bit more assertively. “Hello, girls? Is everyone decent?” (This was a new habit he’d developed, after recently walking into the kitchen to find Maggie and Parker well on their way to an flagrante delicto situation on the counter.) When there was still no response, Harry sighed, assuming that meant they were all still upstairs getting ready. Macy for her work party, Maggie for her date with Parker, and Mel for her shift at The Haunt. There was nothing to do but wait patiently. He used the opportunity to double-check his appearance in the hallway mirror, straightening his bow tie and flicking a spot of lint off of one satin lapel. The velvety evergreen material of the coat was almost indistinguishable against the black satin lapels when it was dim, but when the light hit it just right, you could see the difference in shades. He wasn’t vain by any means, but Harry was aware that the color really brought out his eyes. He smirked self-deprecatingly at himself in the mirror, trying to remember the last time in his many years he’d felt this self-conscious.

A soft creaking noise came from above, and Harry turned toward the stairs, promptly forgetting everything. Including his memories. Including his calling as a Whitelighter. Including basic human functions, like breathing, and thinking. Like an angel wrapped in silks, Macy descended toward him with effortless grace, her long skirts seeming to float out around her as she walked. Made from the palest pink fabric, her dress had a high neck and fell in sweeping lines that only lightly caressed her figure when she walked. It seemed vaguely balletic, but then, perhaps that was more about the graceful way she moved than the dress itself. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused for a moment in the light of the chandelier, and smiled.

“Well, don’t you look dapper.” Her voice was low and soft, cracking slightly at the end. Was she nervous because of how he looked? Or because of how he was looking at her? Harry could only guess. But oh, how badly he wanted it to be the first.

Shaking himself slightly to restore common sense—or, at least, the appearance of it—Harry stepped forward and held out his arm. “Thank you, Macy. And, you look...” He paused for a moment, feeling as if he might suddenly run out of breath. There were no words worthy enough, but this would have to do: “Exquisite.”

Tentatively, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm, turning toward her sisters, who had probably just come in from the living room or the kitchen. But Harry hadn’t noticed, because he’d clearly been distracted.

“Ohmygod, you guys look SO AMAAAAZING,” Maggie gushed. “I need pics. So many pics!”

As she snapped away with her camera phone, with and without a flash, Harry held his breath and silently prayed for the strength to keep his feelings in check for an entire evening. At Maggie’s insistence, Macy edged closer to him, wrapping her hand around his bicep. He glanced toward her, and felt his heart stop, when he realized that he hadn’t yet seen the back of her dress. Which wasn’t there, technically, because the dress seemed to be delicately held together by a few criss-crossing strips of satin cord. That left Macy all but bare from neck to shoulders, to the smooth curve just above her...Dear Gods. He was going to die. Again.

“Okay, well, it’s time to go. Don’t wanna be late.” Macy let go of his arm and moved toward the hallway closet to retrieve her jacket. Acting on instinct, Harry reached out to take it from her and help her put it on. This time, he was careful to avert his eyes and keep his hands from accidentally touching her more than he absolutely had to for the sake of chivalry. And his sanity.

When Macy declared herself ready, she stepped forward, well into his personal space. For a few seconds, he simply stood there, paralized by her closeness. Then he realized, she was waiting for him to put his arms around her, so they could orb to the party, together. For the Gods’ sake, Harry. Pull yourself together.

“Shall we be off, then?” He attempted lamely, hoping to defuse the tension.

She nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming, Harry wrapped his arms around Macy and pulled her with him through time and space.


	2. Death of a Bachelor: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy and Harry "dance" around their feelings.

Macy was way more nervous than she should’ve been for a stupid work party. Even if that party was held at the frigging Metropolitan Museum. Even if it was hosted by a billionaire philanthropist who had helped cure over a dozen diseases by funding hundreds of studies across numerous scientific fields, including, but not limited to: biological engineering, immunology, cell research, genome manipulation.... 

She could only begin to imagine how much it would cost to rent out an entire museum—full of millions of dollars of priceless works of art—for the evening, let alone deck it out with more candles and bottles of champagne than she’d ever seen in one place before. After handing their outerwear over to the coat check, Macy let Harry escort her (she had to stop using that word, escort, even if it was just in her own head—it felt...suggestive, somehow) into the...well, there really wasn’t a better word for it than “ballroom.” Formerly the atrium of the museum, tonight the Wells Foundation had outdone themselves, draping every column in shimmering fabrics, surrounding the edges of the room with white linen covered tables. In the center of the room, there was a dance floor, so shiny, it almost looked like a frozen pond. With people this rich, who knew? Maybe it actually was. Macy gulped, unconsciously gripping Harry’s arm a little tighter.

He made a little sound, almost like a gulp, and glanced over at her. Tonight, Macy had decided to wear heels, which she usually avoided doing, since her regular height already meant she would tower over some people and make them feel uncomfortable. Awkward enough being the only woman of color in so many of the circles she frequented. Take that, and add the giantess factor, and people started to throw around words like “Amazonian” and “statuesque.” Both of which royally skeeved Macy out. Especially when those words came from the mouths of creepy, handsy old white dudes. Harry, on the other hand, while technically an old (very old) white man, had never made her feel as if she didn’t belong. Ever. With her in heels, they were almost the exact same height, so they were perfectly eye-to-eye with each other. It was strangely...almost uncomfortably intimate, Macy decided, after catching herself staring into his eyes for several seconds too long. Smiling nervously, she looked away, around, up toward the ceiling. With her free hand, she gestured vaguely.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? The decorations, I mean. They’re...nice.”

“Yes, quite nice,” Harry agreed. It was silly, but the more awkward he behaved, the less awkward it made her feel. It made her feel like no matter what, they were in it together. Even if “it” in this case meant total social ineptitude. 

Snagging a champagne glass off of a passing tray, Harry handed it to her—ever the gentleman—before grabbing a second glass for himself.

“Refreshments, and fortification,” he said, toasting her with a glass. “A few more of these, and we’ll be feeling ready to mingle, I think.”

Macy laughed, already on her way to taking a sip. He really was a fantastic date, when you ignored the fact that he was almost a hundred years old, and the pagan version of a guardian angel. But then, he was her guardian angel. Hers, and her sisters. Anyway. He always seemed to know exactly what to say, exactly what she needed to hear, to help her calm down and just be herself. Now, if only she could stop being so much herself that she ended up making a fool of herself. Again. As usual.

“There’s something about these...these high-stakes social situations,” Macy found herself confessing to Harry, her voice low. “I always feel like I’m on display, and being tested, at the same time. It’s like my third grade dance recital, and the prom, and the SATs, all rolled into one. Does that even make sense?”

Harry chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean. Standing in this ballroom, I’m immediately transported back to Blackpool in 1939.”

“Blackpool?” Macy searched her memory. “Wait. Why do I know that name?”

“It’s not important. The point is—”

“Ballroom!” she exclaimed suddenly, cutting him off a little too loudly. But Macy couldn’t help it, she was so proud of herself for remembering such a random detail from her teen years—specifically, her brief obsession with the movie “Strictly Ballroom” and the dance lessons she’d begged her dad to pay for, because she’d desperately wanted to learn how to tango for some ridiculous reason. But wait...if she remembered correctly, the Blackpool Festival was...kind of a really big deal in the ballroom dance world. Like, you only got invited there if you were basically a pro. The possibilities were shocking, and immediately intrigued Macy’s inner scientist.

“Harry...did you...you were a competitive ballroom dancer in your—” she quickly did the math. “Late teens? Early twenties?”

Looking a bit sheepish (was he actually blushing?) Harry took another sip of champagne before responding. “Yes, well, that was a long time ago. I’m sure the steps have changed many times over since. Besides, I only ever reached the semi-finals, to be perfectly honest.”

A strange feeling was bubbling up in Macy’s chest, as she listened to her Whitelighter babble somewhat adorably about his supposedly long-forgotten past.

“But you remember the basics, don’t you?” she prodded, reaching out to tug on his lapel with barely-restrained glee.

“Well,” Harry looked down at his feet, an oddly humble expression on his face. “I suppose...I suppose I would have to try it and see.”

“Let’s do it!” For the second time in less than an hour, Macy regretted her choice of words. Maybe it was all in her head, but ever since they’d gone together to Galvin’s party, everything she said around Harry felt like an accidental double-entendre. “I mean...let’s dance. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Dragging Harry along behind her, Macy headed for the dance floor. Her enthusiasm might have been an attempt to disguise how...bubbly she suddenly felt. Or, it might have been her curiosity, begging to be satisfied. But she didn’t want to examine her motives too closely. Tonight was supposed to be casual fun. Well, semi-formal fun. But fun with friends, either way. That was all this was, she told herself. The more fun they had together, the more it would feel like just pals. Pals being pals, as Mel would say. 

Besides, it was ballroom, for crying out loud. People had been dancing like this since the 1920s. How inappropriate, or intimate, could it ever get?

“Now ah, I must warn you Macy,” Harry protested, “I’m a bit rusty, but what I do recall is that the man traditionally leads the dance. As a Women’s Studies professor, I will admit that the rigidity of these gender conventions are a bit dated. So, if you’d rather wait until the band plays something more modern, I would be more than happy to—”

Macy laughed. Oh yeah, this was perfect. No danger here. She stopped at the edge of the dance floor and turned back, just long enough to fix him with a look.

“Come on, Fussy Pants, I promise to follow where you lead, if you promise not to step on my toes.”

“Fussy? Pants?” he sputtered indignantly. “I beg your—”

“Stop whining and show me your moves, Mr. Blackpool.” Giggling evilly to herself (to be fair, she was part-demon) Macy threaded them through the final ring of tables, dodging waiters and old people as they went. Harry’s hand was warm in hers, and he followed along without further argument, which made her feel like she’d won something.

Unfortunately, just as they reached the floor, the song ended. And the band started to play a new, much slower number. Extra unfortunately, Macy had already committed, and this was her idea. So it was too late to back out. Unless...

“Uh oh, wait. Is this a tango?” Macy felt her heart skip along with the slow-moving beat. “Harry, I’m um, I’m not a hundred-percent sure I remember all the steps.”

Taking her hand from his and moving it to rest on his raised arm, Harry smirked. His manner suddenly changed from humble reluctance to something that was almost...cocky? 

“What happened to your promise to follow wherever I lead?” His green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Did the formidable Dr. Vaughn change her tune?”

Macy had a sneaking suspicion that he was enjoying the feeling of turning the tables on her.

“No way,” she shook her head, placing her other hand in his, and straightening her back into the proper tango position. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t...too rusty to try this in public.”

Harry dipped his head toward her, his warm breath tickling her ear as he whispered, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

As he pulled her close—very, very close—and swept her confidently into the first steps of the dance, Macy’s brain short-circuited at how right it felt. Not only that, it seemed almost effortless. Her body moved together with his, seamlessly, effortlessly. Even when she didn’t remember the exact steps, he seemed to always know exactly how to lead her, so it must have looked like she never faltered. Sweeping, spinning, dipping, they traveled around the floor together, shaming the other couples with how in sync they were.

Macy told herself it was because he was such a good dancer, or because they were good friends, or because they both had...actual magic. Any of those, by itself could be a good excuse for why it felt like there were literal sparks flying between them. Why, when he pulled her tight against him, his hand on her lower back—her bare back, damn this dress—Macy felt goosebumps tickling across her skin. She told herself it was just a dance, that he was just a friend, that this was just a teenage fantasy (on her part, at least) coming true, and that was why her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry and she felt almost giddy.

And when he led her into an impromptu leg lift—a move where the male partner literally has to put his entire leg between his female partner’s legs, and kind of launches her off her feet, only to catch her again with his hands around her waist—Macy gasped, and told herself it was just the surprise that made her breathless afterward. The fact that their hips were touching, almost grinding, and their lips were centimeters away as the dance drew to a close, well, that was purely technical. Obviously, it was all for show. Harry was just showing off his dance skills, like she’d asked him to do. Dared him, really.

As the music finally ended, Harry spun her out, and then back into his arms. Distracted, Macy miscalculated her speed and landed with a thud against his chest. She reached out and grabbed a handful of his jacket, as he steadied her with his arms around her waist. His hands were both on her back, holding her tight enough that she could feel each of his individual fingers, but not hard enough to hurt. His hands were warm, and his jacket was so soft, and his eyes seemed almost to glow in the light from the muted chandelier overhead. His face was slightly flushed, but he didn’t seem to be breathing hard, not like she was. It was more like he was...poised. In between steps. Like he was waiting for her to make the next move. But that didn’t make sense. It was his job to lead, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? What she’d asked him to do?

In that moment, Macy could no longer tell herself anything. All she could do was wait and see if what she was feeling was worth acting on. Was it real, or a trick of the light? A side-effect of magic, maybe? What if Harry was actually— 

“Well, that was very impressive, Dr. Vaughn!” The older woman’s voice came from just behind her, and Macy flinched away from Harry’s embrace, breaking eye contact as she did. When they parted, she immediately felt colder, less safe. But she pasted on a smile and turned to greet the speaker, who was one of the board members of the foundation that threw the party.

“Hello, Mrs. Kensington,” Macy said. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m a chicken without a head tonight, running around and making sure everyone is having a good time. You seem to be doing quite well on that front, if you don’t mind me saying so. Now, who is this limber young man of yours?”

Macy opened her mouth to say “oh, this is my friend, Harry,” but instead, what came out was “This is my date. I mean, of course he is. We came here together. And he is, limber, as it turns out. As you just saw.” Oh damn, now she was the one babbling.

Suddenly, she felt the warmth of his hand on her back, just the barest touch—almost like he was reassuring her that he was right there with her. That he literally had her back.  
Stepping to her side, with his arm still around her, Harry reached out to shake Mrs. Kensington’s wrinkled, diamond-bedazzled hand. “Professor Harry Greenwood. How do you do, Madam?”

“Ooh, and he’s British!” Mrs. Kensington winked at Macy, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I’m very well. But I’d be much better if you’d agree to save me a dance later.”

“It would be my sincerest pleasure.” Harry’s response sounded impressively genuine, like he really could think of nothing he’d rather do than dance with the pervy old bird.

Without thinking about it, Macy nestled more deeply into Harry’s arm, leaning against his side. She had no idea what propelled her to add, “We’ll see, Mrs. Kensington. I’m not so sure I can spare him.”

As Mrs. Kensington laughed and toddered off to go schmooze some richer couples, Macy found herself standing still, sneaking a glance up at Harry to see if he’d reacted to her bafflingly possessive response. Maybe he’d think she was just making a joke, trying to lighten the mood. She licked her lips, already formulating an excuse so they could leave the dance floor and laugh it off together like nothing had happened.

But his eyes were already on her lips, and what she saw in them was anything but a joke.

Uh oh.


	3. Like a Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macy & Harry travel to the Vatican to return the Amulet the Caine brothers stole to drain the Charmed Ones’ powers. After “You’re Dead to Me,” but before “Manic Pixie Nightmare”

“Oh my god, Harry! It’s amazing! And...way, way bigger than I imagined!”

The sound of her voice exclaiming his name was such exquisite torture, and yet somehow it seemed perfectly suited to the setting. He and Macy had just orbed together into Vatican City, and there was something poetic about being punished for one’s sinful thoughts under the ever-watchful eyes of the stronghold of Catholicism. Of course, she’d meant the buildings, and only a truly perverted soul would have inferred otherwise. That wasn’t him. Not in the slightest. Not even in his darkest, most private moments. (Then again, nobody was perfect.)

Biting his lip against a self-deprecating chuckle, Harry turned away from her to survey their surroundings, as if he hadn’t been there dozens of times before. With her, everything felt like the first time, and the best time. Every sunrise was brighter, every joke was somehow funnier, ever cup of tea was more delicious. And Gods (or God, under the circumstances) he was beginning to border on an unhealthy, clearly unrequited obsession with this woman. Who he knew he could not have. And should not want. And who he definitely shouldn’t think of as— 

“Harry. Are you sure there’s nothing else bothering you?” Macy’s voice was firm, but her eyes were gentle as she asked the question. “Apart from...the obvious, I mean?”

By ‘the obvious’ Macy meant his recent stint in Tartarus. A topic he’d rather not discuss. Particularly this near to The Source of All Damnings. Though he generally wasn’t a fan of organized religion, Harry had met quite a few holy men—and women—in his day who had stumbled across actual, magical power in their quest to become closer to the Divine. Religious faith was a less hands-on version of magic, but it was magic, nonetheless. The last thing he needed was for some overly-devout priest to overhear Macy talking about his latest trip to Hell, and start up a liturgical chant to send him back from whence he’d barely escaped. 

Harry reached up to straighten the collar of his overcoat, avoiding her gaze, along with the array of uncomfortable feelings it caused. “Of course, Macy. All is well. It’s just...a bit chillier than I’d imagined for this time of year.”

Looking up at the steel gray sky, which had just started to drizzle tiny flakes of snow, Macy seemed surprised. “Oh, I hadn’t even noticed. It is pretty cold, isn’t it?”

What an inconsiderate git he was. Her light suede jacket was stylish and hugged her figure nicely, but it was hardly appropriate for this particular climate. Instinctively, Harry started to unbutton his overcoat, so he could hand it over for her to wear.

Smiling slightly, Macy held up a gloved hand to stop him. “Actually, I’m not that cold.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s the demon side, keeping me warm.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at her.

“Harry, that was a joke!” She reached out to pinch his arm, which didn’t do much through his thick woolen jacket, except tickle slightly. “Come on, it’s kind of funny, you have to admit. Besides, since Dr. Wagner promised to help me find a scientific cure for my demonic, quasi-genetic blood disorder—or whatever it is—I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Hmm.” Harry took her hand and pulled her closer, holding her hand in the crook of his elbow and shielding her from the wind as they walked across the cobblestone plaza toward the cathedral. “As a point of caution, I do think it would be best for us to avoid all mention of demonic and hellacious subjects for the time being. Since we are technically on Holy Ground.”

Eyes wide, Macy pulled at his arm. “Shut up. You’re telling me that Holy Ground is a real thing?”  
Harry smiled at her excitement. “In a sense. It’s actually quite fascinating. The power of various auras, concentrated en masse upon a certain person, place, or thing, can actually converge and create a sort of organic magical protection spell against beings which may threaten the sanctity of….”

He noticed a man approaching them swiftly, and trailed off, putting his arm around Macy without thinking. She didn’t seem to mind, however. In fact, she snuggled in a little closer before turning to face the stranger. (Maybe she was actually colder than she wanted to admit, Harry guessed.)

“Mi scusi, bella signora, ti piacerebbe un tour? Ti porterò in macchina, fa molto caldo. Solo venti dollari americani per un'ora.” The man spoke exclusively to Macy, almost as if Harry were invisible, his voice dripping with confidence.

Rolling his eyes, Harry opened his mouth to respond, but he wasn’t fast enough.

“In realtà, io e il mio ragazzo stiamo andando in chiesa, dove pregheremo per i nostri peccati. Insieme, abbiamo peccato molto ultimamente,” Macy told the man, her accent flawless. “Ma buona giornata. Pregheremo anche per te.”

Looking shocked and slightly impressed, the man laughed and walked away.

Harry turned to Macy, who was still snugly tucked under his arm, looking quite pleased with herself.

“Er, far be it from me to mansplain the romantic languages to you, Macy, since you clearly have a...er, functional grasp of the local dialect, but, do you realize that you just implied to that man that we were...that we had….” Face heating, Harry struggled to find the proper words, but quickly realized that there weren’t any. Proper ones, that is. Not in any language. 

“What? I told him we would pray for him.” Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, she smiled up at him like she was daring him to say more. Harry felt his chest tighten, and it was significantly more difficult to breathe. The tip of her adorable little nose was turning red from the cold. He suddenly had a strong urge to nibble at it. Madness, that’s what this had finally come to. Utter madness.

Straightening his shoulders and forcing himself to get back to business (in practice, if not in thought,) lest he do something rash, Harry cleared his throat. “Let’s go inside, shall we, and hope neither of us burst into flames.” 

Macy’s laugh vibrated softly against his side, and Harry grit his teeth and tried to think holy thoughts.

After passing through the elaborate doorway and into the basilica, Macy was successfully distracted by the gorgeous and historical mosaics, tapestries, and stained glass windows that made the church set so ecstatic to worship. Since she was no longer watching or touching him, Harry gave himself permission to watch her. Just for a few seconds, and just because—in all honestly—he couldn’t help himself. Mouth agape at the general religious splendor, Macy turned in a circle, head craned back as far as it would go, fingers clasped together like an excited child who was worried she may accidentally break something fragile in her excitement. She was the most breathtaking work of art he’d ever seen. The relics around them paled in comparison with her beauty, and her spirit, and her unstoppable thirst for knowledge and unlimited capacity for love. And—God Help Him, literally—if there was ever a time Harry needed a spot of divine intervention to save himself from falling irrevocably, that time was now.

As if by some miracle, as ridiculous as it seemed, a loud thudding noise from the apse at the far end startled them both. Macy instinctively moved closer to him, as they both faced the source of the sound. It was growing late, and the sky outside had already begun to darken. At the far end, in front of the apse, there was a large sculpture surrounded by candles. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked softly down the nave toward the front of the church. As they passed each aisle, Harry glanced sideways, checking to ensure nobody—or no thing—was crouched there, waiting to jump out at them. Macy did the same, as she clearly felt the same hint of wrongness that had just clouded the air.

When they’d almost reached the front of the church, Harry saw what had most-likely made the sound. A large painting, with a heavy and ornate wood frame, had just fallen from the wall and landed facedown on the marble floor. Macy moved to pick it up, but Harry stopped her before she could lift it, gently clutching her arm and putting a finger to his lips. Something was coming, and the vague premonition he was having (which Maggie liked to call his “Whitelighty Sense”) told him that whatever it was would harm them if it could. Acting quickly, Harry pulled Macy into the closest—well, the only—available hiding place: the nearest confessional. 

Unfortunately, not having attended confession since before his death, Harry had forgotten what tight quarters these wooden booths were. Ideally suited for a quiet, private, personal moment of introspection and catharsis, maybe. Dark enough that a parishioner would feel anonymous, or at least disguised enough to freely divulge his or her deepest, most shameful sins. But not so well-suited to hiding from danger, while pressed tightly against the object of your darkest and most fervent desires, with only a velvet curtain to protect you from any would-be attackers.

“Harry?” Macy whispered into his neck, from where she was standing wedged into the furthest corner of the confessional (the part traditionally reserved for a single, devout priest) shielded by his body. Actually, smothered by his body was more accurate. His arm was pinned behind her back, but he twisted his hand around to press slightly against the wall, creating a few precious millimeters of distance between them. Which still left them extremely, uncomfortably close.

Not wanting to make too much noise, Harry bent his head to whisper back to her, as closely as he could without actually brushing his lips against her ear. “Let’s be quiet and listen for a moment. If I believe we’re in danger, I’ll orb us home right away.”

Macy’s hear tickled his neck as she moved closer to respond, whispering even more quietly this time, “Are you sure you can orb on Holy Ground?”

Harry leaned back slightly, just far enough to bring them eye-to-eye, and fixed her with a deadpan expression. “Please.”

Scrunching up her nose, Macy made a sound that she couldn’t seem to help, a strangled cross between a giggle and squeal. Without thinking, Harry reached up to cover her mouth with his hand. Eyes wide, she blinked up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. He saw no fear in her eyes, and no further amusement, but something. It was intense, and fascinating. And terrifying.

Suddenly, Harry was extremely aware of the fact that her legs were somewhat tangled up in his, and her fingers were balled up in the fabric of his jacket, and her soft lips were pressed against his hand in what could be considered—in a much different situation and setting—an intimate exchange. Unbidden, he found himself silently repeating a line from Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet: ‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do. They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’

Closing his eyes, Harry twisted his arm to more securely hold Macy, and moved his fingers away from her mouth, grasping the back of her head as he pulled her face into his shoulder. Grasping at the strings of space and time, he tugged as hard as he could. They orbed out of the confessional, and into the foyer of the Vaugh-Vera house, before Macy could protest, or anything else could happen for that matter.

After making sure Macy was steady on her own feet, Harry stepped back and let go of her as quickly and gently as he could. After a brief moment of confusion at finding herself suddenly back home, Macy looked at Harry with what he could only guess was a mix of suspicion and annoyance. 

“Harry,” she sputtered, her voice cracking slightly. “W-why did you bring us back so fast? We didn’t get a chance to return the amulet! Who was that? Was it demons? Or something worse?”

Turning away, because he couldn’t bear for her to see whatever look was currently on his face, Harry shrugged out of his overcoat and made a fuss over neatly hanging it over the banister. The extra time gave him a chance to compose himself, both mentally and physically. 

“All you need to know is that we were in danger,” he offered lameley, leaning back on his best Professor voice, and hoping to God (Gods) that she wouldn’t press the matter further.

When he dared to turn his head to look at her, Macy was standing with one hand on her hip, red-faced—probably from the sudden change in temperature. “But...how did you know?”

Harry turned away, already heading for the kitchen, to frantically make tea. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt. Especially if he applied a healthy dose of brandy when the girls weren’t looking. 

“Just...trust me, Macy, we were definitely in danger.”


	4. Heaven, Help Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was actually (IMO) going on with Macy during the "Touched by a Demon" episode

Macy had thought that drowning her sorrows—along with her confused feelings—in ice cream and guilty pleasure television was a good idea. But, as usual, she’d failed to calculate the magical cost of allowing herself to wallow a little too hard. In this case, drowning her sorrows meant literally immersing herself into her former favorite TV show, “Heaven’s Vice.” And just like drowning, it was dangerous. Especially when she accidentally pulled Harry down with her.

Ever since Galvin had come back into her life, just as she’d been about to admit to how she felt about Harry, it seemed like Macy was constantly playing a game of “What If” with herself. For days after their night together all those weeks ago, (the one where they’d danced,) she’d done this kind of emotional tug-of-war with herself. Wanting to explore the feelings she was having, but knowing it would likely be a huge mistake. First of all, a relationship between a Whitelighter and a witch—let alone a half-demon one—was expressly forbidden by the Elders. And second of all, what if she was totally misreading the signs? What if, in spite of what she thought she’d seen when she caught Harry looking at her those handful of times, was just wishful thinking? Or, a figment of her imagination? (Her overactive, cheesy-show-binge-watching, romance-starved, former-awkward-teen, virgin-until-almost-thirty, imagination?) Third of all, there was Galvin. Who was a really great guy, so smart and confident, and he’d said that he loved her. He was even going out of his way—far, far out of his way, to Haiti—to prove that to her. 

And that was another thing that was making her feel overwhelmed, like she was drowning in feelings that didn’t make sense. Galvin leaving to hunt down a cure for her demon side should’ve felt like a good thing. She should’ve been excited, hopeful, maybe a little nervous for his safety. But instead, some small part of her had felt relieved as soon as he’d left. Finally, she could stop pretending to be someone she wasn’t, or bracing herself for him to choose someone else, someone like Summer who seemed like she was just more fun and less of a hassle overall. Finally, she could relax, and just totally be herself. All of herself, the good and the bad. The light, and the dark. And she could be with Harry.

That was the most confusing part, ironically. Because when Galvin had come back around, Harry had seemed to be genuinely happy for her. Like a Just Friend would be. So she’d gone along with it, figuring that it wasn’t healthy or practical to pine over someone she couldn’t ever have (who probably didn’t even want her like that, anyway.) And even if there had been a few times since then, little moments where Harry had hugged her for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, or laughed a little too long at her lamest jokes, or looked at her with that same kind of yearning expression he always got when he talked about missing London. 

And then, there was this morning, when she’d burned her hand on the stove but didn’t really feel it. The way he’d touched her, so gently, like she was precious. Macy might not have been able to feel pain the same way she always had, but she definitely felt that. She’d been so afraid that he was going to be scared to touch her, or look at her differently, now that she was showing more signs of being demonic. But there had been no signs of judgement, or fear, or any lessening of tenderness in his eyes. Just compassion, and a dash of worry. Because he cared about her, deeply. Of that much, he’d never given Macy any cause to doubt. 

Even now, as they found themselves being sucked into Macy’s former favorite show (very former, at this point, now that Gideon and Levi had turned out to be such major tools IRL) she couldn’t help but feel like Harry was waiting for her to do, or say, something. It was like that time in tenth grade, when she’d gotten the part of Maria in West Side Story (even though she didn’t really want it, had only tried out at the insistence of her best frienemy Ashley, because ‘Oh Macy, you’re the only one ethnic enough to make the casting seem really authentic!’ but that was a memory to unpack at another time) and she’d practiced for weeks, obsessing over every word and every minor blocking detail, only to totally freeze when the time came and there were bright lights and an auditorium full of people. And....okay. So being with Harry and not knowing what to say to him, it wasn’t quite as humiliating, but it was every bit as frustrating as that. 

So instead of talking about her feelings, Macy threw herself into Heaven’s Vice, leading Harry from the coffee shop scene into the next and final scene of the show. Grabbing his hand, she pulled them into the mist and into literal, fictional hell. Unfortunately, she’d miscalculated where her stunt would land them, exactly, because Macy found herself stuffed into a very tight cage with Harry in the next scene. She blushed slightly, hoping he wouldn’t blame her for not realizing that she’d just led them into a frying pan > fire situation. But he just looked at her calmly, expectantly, because he trusted her to know what to do next. Macy realized in that moment, that was one of her favorite things about him. Even though it was his literal job to save her (and her sisters) he only stepped in when he knew he was needed. Unlike freaking Gideon and Levi, he never overstepped, never made it about him. With Harry by her side, Macy felt strong. Almost unstoppable.

She didn’t hesitate as she reached for the sword, tossing Harry the weapon and watching him catch it effortlessly (as an expert fencer might) with only the slightest flareup of residual crush. Completing the rather obvious riddle of “nothing can kill the Devil, but the Devil Himself,” she ran the faux Hades through, and watched him explode into an SFX pile of smoking dust. Unable to help herself, she ran to hug Harry. He threw down his sword just in time, catching her in his arms and laughing softly into her hair. As the ominous music of the scene swelled around them, Macy found herself tucking her face into the side of his neck and laughing right along with him.

“Harry,” she whispered breathlessly. “Did I just murder the Devil?”

“I think a case could be made for self-defense,” he said. “But yes, you did that indeed.”

Harry pulled back a little, just far enough to look her in the eyes, still laughing. His face had softened, erasing all the frown lines he’d had since returning from Tartarus. It reminded her of how worried she’d been about him, how much she missed him. A sudden, inexplicable ferocity came over her in that moment.

“I wish I could’ve saved you faster,” she whispered, past the lump in her throat. “When you were gone...in...the other version of this place. I would have given anything to be there for you when you needed me the most. To save you, the way you’ve saved me—us—so many times.”

“I know that, Macy.” Harry’s eyes had that look again, misty and deep and full of...something. He slid his hand from her shoulder, to push back her hair, gently brushing his fingers against the side of her face. Macy held her breath, and waited. Harry held her eyes with his, and dipped his head slightly. She clutched his shoulders, parting her lips in anticipation, heart racing.  
“Um, hello!?” Angelica’s voice made them both jump. “Are you guys going to untie me sometime today, or what?”

As if a some kind of spell had been broken along with their eye contact, Harry dropped his hand and sheepishly looked down at his feet, returning to the role of polite—and always professional—Whitelighter, who had nothing but respect and platonic admiration for his charge. Disappointment twisted in Macy’s stomach, and it dawned on her that she could still feel some types of pain. Like embarrassment, and the intense frustration of being unable to trust her gut.

Turning away from Harry, she moved to help untie the plucky Mary Sue heroine who wasn’t half demon, and who had not one, but TWO guardian angels who were madly in love with her. Two men (annoying as they were) who would kill for her, or die for her, no questions asked. Instead of a guardian angel who primarily thought of her as his responsibility, and a human boyfriend who thought the thing that made her the person she’d become was something to cure, like a disease.

In that moment, Macy promised herself that she would never watch this stupid show, ever again.


	5. Manic Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little sneaky ficlet from the "Manic Pixie Nightmare" episode; specifically, the scene where Harry shows up in THAT outfit (y'all know the one.)

Macy had been secretly thankful when Harry had gone a little dippy after his first (accidental) overdose of pixie dust. The hardcore crush she’d been harboring for weeks now was getting almost impossible to ignore, but then, seeing him chirp about whimsical things in a high-pitched voice and almost bursting into a cheesy musical-theater-style dance number about it (as hilarious as it was to witness) made her feel like maybe it would pass, after a while. Not unlike a momentary trip on fairy dust. Galvin would come back, and she’d forget all about Harry as anything other than their friend and magical sidekick. 

Unfortunately, when they walked into the bar where What’s His Face’s memorial was being held (Macy felt kind of bad for not being sadder than she was about the guy’s untimely death, but then again, based on everything they’d heard about the guy he sounded like he’d been kind of a d-bag) there was a major snag in that plan. Macy turned at the sound of Mel greeting Harry, and gulped.

Maggie and Mel were looking askance at Harry too, but (Macy guessed) for vastly different reasons. The leather jacket and hipster-frame glasses, he’d testily informed Maggie, were his attempt at “going incognito” with the ultra-artistic crowd. Mel thought it was funny, how hard he was trying.

Macy, on the other hand, had to remind herself to keep breathing—and definitely, whatever you do, do NOT stare at his ass in those well-fitted, dark-washed jeans—because he looked like a grown up, way sexier, version of Harry Potter, from the books (the way Macy had always imagined him when she’d read them in high school.) Not that she’d ever really had a crush, or anything. But...now, Macy was starting to wonder if maybe the glasses were bringing out some kind of latent, deeply-buried kink she never knew she’d always had.

Or maybe it was just the fairy dust talking. Impossible to tell, really. Regardless of the reason, Macy made a beeline for the bar and ordered a glass of red wine—no, on second thought, she corrected the bartender; white wine, please—because even though a glass of wine usually helped calm her down, red wine always made her feel warm and kind of in the mood to...anyway. Gripping the wine glass way tighter than necessary, Macy sipped and watched as Harry circulated effortlessly through the room, dropping little tidbits of obscure philosophy, high-brow literature, and even niche filmography references like a secret agent who specialized in espionage of the Arts and Humanities variety. When they’d first met, Macy remembered feeling intellectually superior to him, because his technological and scientific knowledge couldn’t possibly rival her own. (A fact which he’d humbly confirmed, many times, before respectfully deferring to her expertise on whatever subject matter better fit her knowledge base. It was like the opposite of mansplaining, and it was...refreshing, to say the least.) That said, there was also something incredibly, psychologically sexy about a man who was confident in the knowledge that he did have, and for good reason. 

When it came to finessing film students by flattering their egos, just enough to get them to gush about everything they knew (and a lot more they didn’t) Harry was like a magician, gently coaxing a rabbit out of a hat. Taking another sip of her wine, Macy half-listened to a girl named Paisley excitedly explain her theory on lighting contrast and how it could be used to subtly portray emotional depth in a scene. Nodding politely, Macy watched as Harry asked another young filmmaker a question, aged leather stretching tightly across his shoulders as he spoke—as usual—very expressively, with his hands. Harry had beautiful hands, Macy had noticed. Long and elegant, like those of a piano player, or maybe a violinist. But they were also strong, and surprisingly calloused considering his supposed role as an academic who only rarely fought with his hands, only if/when the occasion called for it.

As the film student responded to his question, Harry turned slightly toward her, crossing his arms over his chest. She raised an eyebrow, without even really thinking about it, as her gaze followed the motion, to where his dark t-shirt rode up slightly above the hem of his jeans. Much tighter than the tailored suit trousers he usually wore, particularly in...certain places. Macy bit her lip, tilting her head slightly as her eyes continued to travel down toward—

“Girlfriend.” Paisley, the multiple-eyebrow-piercing-wearing, green-haired film student, was looking up at her with a strange expression on her face. Seeming perturbed yet smiling, she glanced pointedly from Macy, to Harry, then back again. “Not to overstep, but we won’t be offended if you want to just like, drag your husband into the bathroom and get it over with. I feel like it would be slightly less awkward for everyone concerned,” she put her hand up and vaguely gestured around the room, “than having to watch you eye-fuck him into another dimension, from across the room. I’m just saying.”

“What?” Macy tried to sound casual, but her voice came out much higher and squeakier than usual. “I don’t know what you...H-husband?...no, we’re just, he’s not—I mean, I definitely wasn’t. Doing that. What does that even...you...Paisley, you are mistaken.”

“Mistaken about what?” Harry’s voice, so close to her ear, caused Macy to flinch so hard, she almost sloshed wine all over Paisley. She clenched her jaw into a smile, and cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact with her leather-clad, bespectacled Whitelighter at all costs. (If there was a 1/1,000,000 chance he’d overheard what they’d been talking about, Macy wasn’t willing to take the chance, lest she spontaneously combust in a room full of people with camera phones that were always filming.) Forcing a light chuckle—which, honestly sounded more like she was hyperventilating—Macy willed Paisley to change the subject, as hard as she could, using only her eyes (because she really didn’t trust herself to speak yet.)

Unfortunately, Paisley wasn’t the clairvoyant type. (Or, if she was, she simply gave zero fucks about keeping Macy from exploding from sheer humiliation.) Because the young student promptly turned to Harry and said, “Trust me, bro. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take this hot slice of cake home right now and let her show you the meaning of life. In every position. Twice. But whatever you do, just...wait until you leave here. Because,” she paused, once again gesturing to the room, (as Macy closed her eyes and downed the rest of her wine,) then she continued, “I’m not sure if you all realize, but this is a memorial. Like, a guy died, okay? Maybe have some respect for the vibe.”

Humiliation fuse successfully lit, Paisley clomped off in her Doc Martens to join another group of film students across the bar.

For a few long seconds, Macy just stood there with her eyes closed, bracing herself for questions that she had no idea how to answer. But nothing happened. She could still feel Harry’s presence in the warmth that surrounded her right arm, but he hadn’t said anything in what felt like forever. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She opened one eye, squinting over at him to see how he’d react. But...like her, he was just kind of standing there, in a stunned silence, staring off into space and thinking about God Knew What. Macy opened both eyes and schooled her face into what she hoped was a controlled expression.

“So, um….” She searched for an appropriate explanation, but there wasn’t one. Failing that, she tried to come up with a less appropriate, but still believable one. That failed, too. Still short-circuiting, Macy frantically flagged the bartender down, pointing at her glass and hoping she would get the memo that the next glass needed to have much more wine in it this time. Or possibly just, straight vodka. After all, the damage had likely already been done. What was the harm now in getting plastered and maybe saying something even stupider? Actually, scratch that. She could think of about a thousand more ways—including, but not limited to her actually (accidentally) getting drunk enough to consider taking Paisley’s advice—that could go wrong. Er. Wronger. 

Macy stole another glance at Harry, who finally seemed to be coming out of it. He looked over at her, not really meeting her eyes, and then back toward where the film student had trotted off to, then down at the floor. Clearing his throat several times, very quietly, he removed his glasses and started wiping them off with a handkerchief he pulled from an inside pocket of his leather jacket. (Nevermind that they’d looked perfectly clean already, or that leather jackets and cloth handkerchiefs were clearly mixing genres. Obviously, Macy told herself, that wasn’t the point.) The point was, she realized, this situation had gotten wildly out of hand. Pixies or no pixies, she was going to have to figure out a way to keep these kinds of feelings more tightly wrapped.

After another fortifying gulp, Macy leaned in toward Harry, close enough that their shoulders brushed together. She told herself the tingling she felt down her back was a result of a chill from the door that had just opened behind them. From the corner of her eye, Macy saw another couple slipping out of the memorial, probably on their way to do just what she’d fantasized about...but no. Nope, not going there. She took another sip, followed by a deep breath.

“I’m pretty sure that Paisley girl was on drugs,” she said.

“Very likely,” Harry agreed.

And that was the end of it. Not because anything had actually been resolved between them, but because a few seconds later, some other poor guy got hit by a truck. It was tragic, of course. However...the timing was also extremely convenient.


	6. Your Source of Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hacy is what happens when you take two characters who are really smart about everything (except for romance) and who are each incapable of making the first move, and you have them accidentally fall in love with each other. TLDR: Angst. Lots of angst. 
> 
> (Alt Chapter Title: Freshman Psych Rears its Ugly Head.)

Macy was so tired. So angry. So tired of being so angry. All the time.

After what had happened with Charity, after being magically gaslit and manipulated into thinking she was losing her mind and maybe even a murderer, after watching Harry get thrown under the bus by the Elders for Charity’s crimes—correction, after he’d let himself be thrown under the bus, and gotten stripped of his immortality, essentially succumbing to a death sentence—after silently grieving him, then discovering that he’d been taken by Fiona, after every new cruel twist of fate seemed designed to torture her, specifically, the betrayal and despair and confusion she’d felt had grown inside her like a cancerous mass, slowly overtaking her scientific curiosity and poisinong her core of hope, turning her into a cynical, rage-filled creature.

Or maybe that was partly due to her demon side. Macy had no way of knowing for sure. All she knew was that every time she looked at Harry now, her mind was filled with this swirling confusion. She found herself torn between wanting to hug him and strangle him. Meanwhile, every time she looked at Galvin, the man who was (supposedly, sometimes) her actual boyfriend, all she wanted to do was find an excuse—any excuse—to walk away. Especially after he’d told her how he really, truly felt about all this magical “stuff” that defined her daily existence. All this thrilling, transformative, powerful, dangerous magical stuff that made Macy who she was. For better, or for worse. (These days, it was usually for worse, unfortunately.)

“Do I have to say it again, ladies? Seriously? If you don’t get your Latin pronunciation perfect on the first try, there’s no second try. Because your tongue will be incinerated, along with the rest of your body. Okay?”

Tessa, the latest and most catty twist of fate, was their new whitelighter. Macy secretly (okay, maybe not so secretly) hated her. Not only was she an inescapable, perky bordering on shrill, constant reminder that Harry was gone…. She was also honestly kind of a bitch. Macy shook her head, trying to clear away those caustic thoughts. They were so unlike her. Calling another woman shrill—a classic patriarchal buzzword—or mislabeling her confidence as bitchiness? What had gotten into her lately? Somehow, deep down, she suspected she already knew the answer. It wasn’t so much what was in her, as it was what she was going without. What had been taken away.

Galvin didn’t understand it, and her sisters were prone to misinterpreting it as her demon side rising to numb her happiness along with the pain. But Macy was in mourning. For something...someone...precious to her. Someone she’d barely gotten the chance to know. Unlike the way she felt about losing her mother, it wasn’t a dull pain. It was sharp, and new, and shiny in a way that didn’t make sense. It burned through her dreams when she slept and sliced across her soul like a thousand tiny cuts. It was excruciating, maddening, and she’d give anything to make it stop.

Weeks later, when they learned—against all odds, against all hope—that Harry was still alive, that Fiona had actually kept her promise to restore him to his old self (his ageless self) and that she was keeping him as her personal healer and magical slave, all of the feelings melded together into one crystalline addiction: Macy needed to make sure nobody could hurt the ones she loved, ever again. No matter what she had to do, no matter how dark she had to go, there had to be a way for her to get the power she needed to keep them safe. Together. Forever.

Macy turned into herself then, hiding behind a facade of normalcy, even as she spiraled down until she couldn’t remember how to resurface. Taking on the Source was the final step in a slippery slope she hadn’t even realized she’d been sliding down, until it was far too late. Even then, there was a part of her that welcomed the lack of control. Because now, the power finally overrode the anger, and the fear, and the unbearable wanting. Now, she could finally escape the dreams, and the endless self-questioning, and all the million little What Ifs. The Source drowned out everything else, making it all seem so small and insignificant.

Until Harry touched her. It was such a small gesture. One he’d done maybe a hundred times before. But with her newfound power, it was like a veil had fallen from across her vision. She saw through him, into him. It wasn’t words, necessarily, or even feelings. It was more like...the true meaning of everything. Everything that had happened between them suddenly made sense. Every look, every wry smile, every polite touch, every surreptitious look in her direction. Everything he’d ever said to her, or about her, translated through a Rosetta Stone of emotions.

“I knew you could do it, Macy.” Because you’re the most amazing person I have ever known. So strong. So intelligent. So beautiful. You’re a miracle, and you don’t even see it.

“Macy, we were all worried about you.” If anything had happened to you, I don’t know what I’d…

“Come back to me, Macy.” My darling, please…

“We all love you.” If only I had the courage to tell you…

Blinded by her own omniscience, Source Macy felt only the satisfaction of a puzzle that had finally been solved. Distantly, almost smugly, she found herself thinking that it seemed almost silly how much time her previously limited human mind had dedicated to trying to crack this particular code. What a waste. How simple it was, after all. Almost boring, in fact. 

Raising a single eyebrow just a fraction, she regarded her previously/secretly beloved (and apparently deeply loving in return) Whitelighter almost coldly, like he’d been sliced thin and sandwiched between two glass slides under her microscope. How pathetic it all was, that now it was far too late. She was beyond such things. Family. Loyalty. Love. They were beneath her. 

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, lest there be any remaining confusion. But then, somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny version of her own voice screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”

So instead, she simply said, “I can read thoughts now, too.”

When he let go of her, something seemed to snap inside her. Maybe it was the last tether to Macy’s past, the person she’d been. But whatever it was, once it was gone, she was free to solve all the problems left on her list. Finally, she could do what needed to be done, to make the world exactly as she wanted it, without fear or concern about the repercussions. Still, even as she molded reality to her will, as she resurrected her mother, and banished anyone who got in the way of her perfectly ordered world...he was always there. Somehow, Harry managed to always be just inescapably at the edge of her vision, making it impossible to forget he existed.

He was there in the store when she talked to Knansie, warm green eyes lighting with surprise and interest the moment they connected with hers, even though he shouldn’t have known her. Even though there was no possible way he could have known her. He was there, orbing in to stop her from killing her once beloved sister in her mindless rage. He was there in her dreams, during the rare moments she allowed herself to sleep. And he was there when she died, or when she ceased to exist, after willing herself out of existence in a last ditch attempt to finally solve the problems in her world—which she herself always inevitably seemed to cause. In that realm of non-existence, when all that remained was a disembodied consciousness of sorts, his voice had reached across time and space to find her.

Come back to me, Macy.

And somehow, against all laws of magic and physics, she had. Macy had come back to him, and to her sisters, and—most importantly—to herself. Returning to that regular, all too human/witch/demon state had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, apart from finally letting go of her need to be anything else but what she was. As always, he’d been there to catch her and hold the pieces of her together. Just...not in the way she wished he would.

On a sunny morning, dressed in white as the witches’ version of mourning, Macy found herself alone with Harry for the first time since...everything. Linking arms platonically, awaiting her consent, giving nothing away about his own feelings, always the gentleman, it seemed like he was pulling her into a future where everything would be just as confusing as ever. It made Macy want to scream, or maybe light something on fire. But Normal Macy didn’t do things like that. Rage Macy, Angst Macy, Source Macy...all of those versions of her were banished now, and they needed to stay that way. So instead, she smiled, and tried to broach the subject as politely as she could. As any normal, sane, human girl would.

“Do you wanna talk about what I heard?” (Subtext: when I was channeling the source of all power, and could finally read your mind, for once?) Okay, so maybe not that normal.

Harry’s bicep flexed slightly under her hand, and his spine seemed to straighten a bit. Macy watched his face, holding her breath as she studied him (back to being the ever-objective and virginal-until-very-recently scientist, who also suffered from crippling social awkwardness) and hoping for some kind of actionable sign that he still felt...whatever it was she thought she’d felt him feel...before. Because now, it seemed just as plausible that everything had been a figment of her galaxy brain’s overactive sense of self-esteem, her Source-fueled assumption that everyone was obsessed with her, and why wouldn’t they be, because she was the greatest?

A miracle.

Had he really thought that about her? Or had she only imagined it? Macy waited, hoping.

But Harry’s response was as gentlemanly, as polite, as frustratingly British as ever. Smirking awkwardly, self-deprecatingly, with zero discernable subtext—at least, as far as Macy could tell—he put a stop to the discussion before it had even really started.

“I would just like to point out, it’s a gross violation of trust to read your Whitelighter’s private thoughts.”

Macy fixed him with a look. Was he really just going to...did he seriously? Okay.

Swallowing her disappointment and covering it with a smile, she decided to take his words at face value. If privacy was what he wanted, if forgetting was what he wanted, that was that. If he really wanted more from her, if he wanted to explore those feelings he’d supposedly had, surely he would’ve done or said something by now. So maybe that was her answer.

“Let’s just...pretend it never happened.”

Macy nodded and smiled, and it felt like a kind of surrender.


End file.
